


i will hang on the hook of your splendour

by kingmaker



Series: roseblood [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Alternate Universe - Scooby Doo Fusion, F/F, Minor Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingmaker/pseuds/kingmaker
Summary: “We have to go up to Woodland House tomorrow,” Betty said, hopping out of the back of the van the night before, dressed in something that she called summer sleepwear and Jughead deemed to be sweet torture. “There has to be a clue there about these abductions.”Mystery Inc AU.based on a prompt: “For the love of God, what is making that that noise?”





	i will hang on the hook of your splendour

“We should have picked the dog, instead,” Jughead grumbled, swiping a spider web out of his face with a grimace. 

“You don’t mean that, Jug,” Betty said, gingerly tiptoeing a handspan behind him, the flashlight’s glare reflecting softly off her pink jacket. 

“I really, _really_ do,” he insisted. “Just think about it: We get the same level of intelligence in a cuter package.” 

Betty snorted. “Because you are ever so fond of Hot Dog.”

Jughead sighed, wiping away a trickle of sweat with the back of his hand. His hated Louisiana, he hated this stupid ‘haunted’ mansion, he was starting to hate Archie, too. 

“We told him half-a-million times to watch his goddamn surroundings, but what does Archibald do the second we turn our backs on him? He fucking disappears.” 

“There was probably a trap door in that bookcase, Jug. It’s not like Archie purposefully tries to get captured.” 

Jughead sent her a half-hearted glare, lacking any true disapproval. There was a slight quirk to the eyebrows and an upward curl of the lips that was so, _so_ distinctly Betty Cooper — something exciting and headstrong and challenging all at once. Betty was soft and fierce and curious, like the first spark of an inferno. She drew him in, enthralled him. 

It was because of this fascination, Jughead found himself stalking through a saturated in dust and drenched in cobwebs gnawed out mansion in the middle of swam land during the last week of July. They have been on the road for almost two months, and Jughead equal parts hated and loved it. 

Roadtrip, Kevin and Veronica declared with a flare; Mystery solving, Betty gushed; Monster hunting, Archie enthused; Babysitting friends, Jughead surmised, and he was not wrong. There was something atmospheric and beautifully transient about the notion of an open, stretched out road and all of his friends with him on the journey — about physical representation of _freedom_ and _moving_ _forward_. 

But it also involved four people who had never been out of parental-care before, one of whom had a very tenuous grasp on the concept of budgeting; and it said _a lot_ about the five of them, that the voice of logic and reason was the resident gang member. 

Currently, they were in the middle of nowhere Louisiana and Jughead hated it. Swampy and oppressively hot with a wildlife that seemed to have been designed to personally exasperate him. (Jughead had an encounter with an alligator snapping turtle and he did not come out of it unscathed.) A warped cylinder head parked them in a small, backwoods little town that had Archie breaking out into a fairly good impression of a southern drawl, Kevin hitting on the local dinner’s young owner, and Betty working herself into a tizzy arguing with the mechanic about Big Bertha’s engine. 

“We have to go up to Woodland House tomorrow,” Betty said, hopping out of the back of the van the night before, dressed in something that she called summer sleepwear and Jughead deemed to be sweet torture. “There has to be a clue there about these abductions.” 

Jughead was sleeping in the van. For one, unlike the others, he was fashioned by life into a light sleeper and never failed to be kept awake by the cacophony of Kevin’s snoring. Hence, sharing a room with him and Archie was out of the question. For another, Big Bertha had been almost jacked twice now and out of the five of them, Jughead was better equipped at handling both a knife and a gun, which admittedly was not, well, _a good thing_ , but it kept the thieves away. 

Jughead rolled his eyes, catching Betty by waist and manoeuvring her between his legs. “You cannot honestly believe the ghost of Rosaline Magnolia is spiriting away these men.”

“Pfff, what? Of course, not. But—”

“Oh, god, _no_ , Betty—”

“—it wouldn’t be _that_ terrible,” she smiled, locking her hands behind his head. “It could be exciting! Aren’t you curious?”

“We’ve had, what, twenty something—”

“It’s been twenty-six and I know for a fact you record every single one, Jug.” 

“—of these sort of mysteries already, and all of them were just a bunch of weirdos dressing up and trying to get away with crimes.” It had to have been the Mayor, Jughead was certain. Logically, Mayor Fowley stood the most to gain from the entire ploy. Logic had never led Jughead astray, even if it abandoned him from time to time.  

Betty tapped a finger against her chin. “I seem to recall a young man once giving me a speech, saying ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in, and I don’t wanna fit in—’”

“Haha, very funny, Bets,” Jughead chuckled drawing her closer. “You’re never going to let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope, never.” Betty laughed, and kissed him, slow and sweet and soft. The sky above cradled a waxing crescent and the air, saturated in dust, pressed into their bones, cloaking them like an iron mantle. Jughead was happy.

Different roads, different paths, he thought, leading to the same valley, nonetheless. And he and Betty, together, through all of them.  

Presently, in the bowels of Woodland House, there was a high-pitched squeak and a low, guttural groan, and Jughead nearly gave himself whiplash from how fast he had snapped his head in the direction of the sound — the bright-yellow beam of his headlamp fell on a rust-yellow door to his left, the wood of it rotting at the edges. 

Betty squawked, startled, her hands scrambled to grab onto him and her nails dug into his forearm painfully, even through two layers of cloth. “ _For the love of God, what is making that that noise?_ ” 

Instinctively, Jughead’s hands tightened around the bat and he tried not to think of how much surer he would have felt had the butterfly-knife he tucked away into his boot were to slide into his waiting palm. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, curiosity rearing its ugly head as the initial scare had melted off his heart in decaying whips. 

Betty’s dropped flashlight was rolling lazily at their feet, the light of it falling in slanted lines across the floor, clearly illuminating a distinct lack of dust on the floorboards before the door. 

He licked his lips, swallowed, and tilting his head, glanced down to meet Betty’s wide-eyed, enthralling stare. In the glow of gloaming, the brightness of her gooseberry-green eyes shone; glittering with something stronger than fright, something deeper than excitement. 

Jughead felt her hand creep down the length of his forearm and scoot into the ready embrace of his waiting, open palm. Small, thin finger-bones weaved through his own and their dry palms pressed against one another, firm and tight and gloriously warm — a tether between the two them. 

Somehow, it felt like a promise. 

His pounding heart beat a steady drum in his ears, and when Jughead spoke, his voice felt as dry as the stale air around them, as if it too had been shrouded by dust and ashes, and was ensnared by the silky cobwebs of the past, “Wanna find out?” 

Betty smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find it on tumblr [here](https://stark.tumblr.com/post/174682924096/for-the-love-of-god-what-is-making-that-that).  
> This is based on my headcanon that if the Sad Breakfast Club ever became the Mystery Gang, then Jug is Velma, Betty is Fred, Veronica is Shaggy, Archie is Daphne, and Kevin is Scooby. Oh, look. There’s even a [fanart](https://stark.tumblr.com/post/174682899601/dolcissimo-the-scooby-gang) to match my headcanon. How cute. Find me on tumblr [@stark](https://stark.tumblr.com)
> 
> Below are fragmented conversations where they discuss these choices in an unrelated fanfic I will never write:  
> //  
> “Well, since we already call ourselves the Scooby Gang, might as well make it official,” she turned to face the taller blonde, “whaddaya say, Bets, wanna be Velma to my Daphne?”  
> Betty finished chewing her apple before replying, “Sorry, Ron. No can do.”  
> Veronica’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”  
> Kevin chose that moment to cut in, smiling, “Betty’s been Riverdale’s very own Freddy Jones since she was eight-years-old.”  
> “Really,” drawled Veronica, dark eyes darting between Betty and Kevin, before settling on the boy sitting across from her. “Who were you, then, Archikins?”  
> Archie flushed and pursed his mouth before replying, “…Daphne.”  
> Kevin couldn’t help but release a sharp bark of laughter, as Veronica narrowed her eyes in contemplation. “It’s the red hair, I guess.”  
> “And his tendency to attract predators,” quipped Jughead, mouth pressed into a wry line.  
> “Actually,” Betty cut in, covertly elbowing Jughead in the ribs, “it was because it was when Archie started exhibiting his interest in music, and Daphne was the only one of the gang who could sing and play an instrument.”  
> //  
> “Let me guess, with your nigh insatiable appetite, you are Riverdale’s Norman Rogers?”  
> Jughead rolled his eyes. “In future, remember to avoid game shows, Lodge, because that was an incorrect guess.”  
> “Scooby?”  
> Jughead raised a dark eyebrow.  
> Veronica blinked. “ _You_ are the resident Velma Dinkley?”  
>  “Can you sound any more surprised?”  
> //  
> “So, who are you?”  
> “Oh, I’m Scooby-Doo — endearingly cute, reluctant to engage in suspicious activity, selectively courageous, and very loyal. The resemblance is uncanny.”  
> “Hold on. I’m _Shaggy_?!”  
>  “Yep,” Archie winked, good-naturedly, just as Jughead smirked, adding, “the live bait.”  
> //  
> “All voting for Cheryl being the Scrappy, say ‘aye’.”  
> “Aye!” Simultaneously chorused five voices.  
> Kevin slammed his open palm against the table. “A unanimous decision. The motion had passed. From this moment onwards, Cheryl Prunella Blossom—”  
> “That’s not her middlename,” cut in Betty.  
> “Really,” Veronica asked. “Well, it should be.”  
> Kevin ignored both of them, continuing, “—will be known to one and all as one Scrappy-Doo.”  
> //


End file.
